


Camouflaged Pain

by th3forgotten



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: ALL OF IT, Basically just angst, Cant handle it, Dead Claudia Stilinski, Hurt Stiles, I AM A DESPICABLE HUMAN BEING, I honestly just thought of this, If you use my idea please give credit, Im sorry if someone as already thought of this before, Review as well please so I know if it's good, Sad Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Angst, There are actual tears on my keyboard from writing this, Too emotionally unstable for this, V sorryyyy, Very depressing, Why Did I Write This?, YOU CAN SHOOT ME AFTER THIS, i cried, im sorry, just a one shot I thought of, this is my first post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 00:54:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3230084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th3forgotten/pseuds/th3forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's 365 days in a year, 8760 hours, 525600 minutes and 31536000 seconds.<br/>There's 365 days, 12 months and 52 weeks on a calender.<br/>23 hours and 56 minutes are spent wallowing in guilt, grief and traumatic flashbacks.<br/>Well... At least for me that is.<br/>They say time makes the pain easier.<br/>Time just gives us more excuses for the tears.<br/>More fake smiles to plaster on our faces.<br/>More foundation to try and fill in the cracks of our guarded exterior.<br/>More seconds, minutes, hours, days, years to try to make it look like it doesn't hurt.<br/>More seconds, minutes, hours, days, years to perfect being okay.<br/>Because the longer you act like your fine, the easier it is to get into character.<br/>Too stay in character.<br/>Right?<br/>Your life is like a Jenga tower, as soon as one block is out of place it counterparts just how long you have until the walls you have built crumble into dust.<br/>The ruins of your life laying at your feet in the mist of pain, past and memories<br/>There's only time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Camouflaged Pain

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize in advance. I cried while writing this so I am sorry if you cry too.

There's 365 days in a year, 8760 hours, 525600 minutes and 31536000 seconds.

There's 365 days, 12 months and 52 weeks on a calender.

23 hours and 56 minutes are spent wallowing in guilt, grief and traumatic flashbacks.

Well... At least for me that is.

They say time makes the pain easier.

Time just gives us more excuses for the tears.

More fake smiles to plaster on our faces.

More foundation to  **try** and fill in the cracks of our guarded exterior.

More seconds, minutes, hours, days, years to  **try** to make it look like it doesn't hurt. 

More seconds, minutes, hours, days, years to perfect being okay.

Because the longer you act like your fine, the easier it is to get into character.

Too stay in character.

Right?

Your life is like a Jenga tower, as soon as one block is out of place it counterparts just how long you have until the walls you have built crumble into dust.

The ruins of your life laying at your feet in the mist of pain, past and memories

There's only time.

* * *

 

A marble headstone stood in front of me. 'Claudia Stilinski' engraved in an elegant, cursive writing. Her death  _literally_ written in stone. A marble headstone with my mothers name. Unmoving. An inanimate object. Does that mean the dead are inanimate objects? No longer able to move or dance or sing or walk or talk or breathe. Is it true? Is that what death feels like? Or is it painless, blissful darkness? Or is it a suffocating white- like hospital walls- cocooning you in a blanket of broken promises, selfish desires, wants, unanswered prayers and mistakes until it becomes suffocating. Torturous. Death may be inevitable but that doesn't mean it hurts any less when the big and small hand stop ticking-just like the hospital heart monitor as it flat lines. Death doesn't wait for anybody. It can be vicious. It can take anybody before you even get to say goodbye. But at least you know they suffered no pain. Or it can take its time. Stretch it's dagger-like fingers at such an agonizingly slow pace you pray for death to take that person away without suffering. Reduces you to a humiliating pile of flesh, bone, defeat and misery.

And sometimes death makes you watch. Makes not only the person dying suffer but those around them. Makes you watch as you see them die in front of your own eyes. Almost physically see them becoming another person. Moving onto the afterlife. Make you watch as their brain deteriorates. Insanity eating away at their minds. Leaving them in a hazed mix of colours. Reds, whites, blacks, purples, blues, pinks. Puts them in a bittersweet sedation of jumbled up emotions. Leave them slipping in and out of conscious- blissfully oblivious how close they are to death. Death can be cruel. He can make you watch as the person you love becomes unrecognizable. It hurts more when not only can you how different they are. How much they have changed. Drags on the inevitable. Forces you to see their personality change. Until they might as well be buried 6ft under because that's not living.

Death can be a bitch.

It makes you wait until the white walls of the hospital hallways are seared into your eyes. Until the beeping of the heart monitor flat lining is the only thing you can hear. A repetitive cycle- almost routine. Inevitable.

Makes a single day unbearable where it almost gets to the point you pray for death too but then you remember why you felt like this and you would never wish that pain on your worst enemy. It’s all the people left at your funeral, wondering how they’re going to live their lives without you in it. 

Sometimes I try to imagine what it would be like. Being dead I mean. Would I be missed? Does anyone care enough about me to miss my existence? Too even notice I'm gone? To cry for my expense because I can't do that anymore? It gives me a headache as if I'm dammed at looking at those white hospital walls forever. Gives me a migraine just like it used to. The pain a dull ache to the lead being buried in my heart like the casket under the ground. But I happily welcome the blissful serenity of darkness. The silence, never changing.

Don't mistake the darkness for sleeping. Dreams are just a black abyss of emotions and pain. I's the only place I can't escape the guilt. Or try to hide it. Sleep mocks me. It torments me to the point of fear. Until I succumb to exhaustion where my mind is unable _not_ to think. Where I forcibly _have_ to wander down dangerous paths of hurt and death. Memories…

* * *

 

  _The white of the walls make me want to gauge them out. Scratch them until they distract me from the deep ache in my heart. I need a distraction. Something. I have 6 hours of school but what about the rest? How am I going to survive the remaining time? The hallways seem to get longer in height yet tinnier in width. It reminds me of one of my mums hugs- I can barely even remember being encased in those warm arms. Those arms with a steady pulse and and the feeling of warm soaking into my skin. As I melted into those **strong** arms. Now they can barely lift a spoon to her mouth. Chapped lips, spilling most of the bland soup onto the pasty skin surrounding it. The sickly- yet still smooth- skin contrasting even more abstractly against the dark freckles littered like a constellation of stars against her cheeks. My mama's beautiful. People say I have her eyes. A rich whiskey colour. It makes me think of the drink Dad keeps on downing. The bottle smashing into pieces as he throws it at my head. Telling me 'why did I let my mama get sick?' or 'Why did I look like her?', 'Why did I remind him of the one person he loves?', 'Why wasn't I the one dying instead?' It hurt. A lot. But it didn't distract me from the constant nagging feeling that something bad was going to happen. I knew it was going to happen. Doesn't mean it helped me deal with it._

_See my mama's been forgetting things. She's ill. In the hospital in fact. She forgot to pick me up from school once. Twice. Two times in a week. All week. I don't blame her for it though. She can't help that I made her get sick. The teachers tell me it's not my fault but it is. I know it. My dad enjoys telling me and he's a police officer. They are always right. I used to want to be like him but now... I miss the small things I took for granted. Like spending the evening in the station with my Dad and mama doing homework. Or cooking with my mom. I know I won't be able to do these things with her anymore. She forgets she's in the hospital sometimes. Lying there just to surrender to the illness. The doctors call it 'frontotemporal dementia'_

_Room 204 in the critical unit approaches quicker than I thought. The door casts a large shadow over me as I pull the cold, silver door handle downwards. My mama is propped up against a bundle of pillows, attempting to eat with shaking hands. I reach over and place my hand over hers. My mama's eyes- unfocused and glazed over, clouded with sickness- find my own._

_'Hi, can I help you?'_

_‘It’s me. Stiles.’_

_‘Oh you have the same name as my son, as unusual as it is’ soft laughter rose from her throat as though what she had said was humorous. It probably would have been if it I didn’t see the harsh reality behind her words. If I hadn’t of known the insanity gnawing away inside her head and how the person sitting in that hospital bed was only half the person my mama was._

_‘Have you lost your mama little boy?’_

_I want to scream. To cry. Anything. Feel something. The numbness spreads through my chest like hypothermia and the cold seems to ice my heart- stopping it from functioning. Feeling numb hurts more than the pain because at least I feel alive still. The numbness makes me feel like I’m dying along with my mama. Such a simple question reduces me to an inanimate object. Unmoving. Corpse-like._

_My mama forgot me. Me! Her only son, her ‘pride and joy’ And it’s **my** fault for letting her get sick. It’s all my fault. I think about my answer and the truth is harsh, cruel, cold. It reminds me so much of death but it’s the truth so I say_

_‘Yes… I lost her a long time ago’_

_Because I had. My mama wouldn’t die when the heart monitor goes flat. Or when her heart stops beating. It already had. To me anyway. She died when she was diagnosed. When the sickness settled in her bones she had died. When she forgot me she had died._

_My feet carry me to the door in about five seconds and she calls out to me when my hand touches the handle._

_‘If you see my son will you tell him I love him? Oh and can I ask you name?’_

_Tears prick my eyes at the innocence of the question. How she speaks to her own son like a stranger because of the mist clouding her brain or how the forgetfulness has intoxicated her memories- poisoned them until they have wilted in her own haze of confusion. I swallow around the knot that has formed in my throat, constricting me from breathing properly and blink the tears from my behind my eyes._

_‘Y-y-yess I will. My name is Stilinski. Stiles Stilinski.’_

_Familiarity bleeds into her eyes and hope builds in my chest only to be knocked down by her next response._

_‘That rings a bell… are you a friend of my sons? Or my husbands? A son of one of my friends? You seem familiar… Your eyes remind me of someone… someone close…’_

_You. You, I want to say. I have your eyes. But I can’t seem to swallow around the knot in my throat or wash away the tears that I could feel cascading down my cheeks._

_Her arms open and I run into them. She comforts a stranger who is actually her son. Death let her keep a part of her personality- her kindness to everyone. That hurts so much. I cry into her shoulder. I cry for the illness. I cry because my own mama thinks she’s comforting s stranger and not her own son. I cry because my own mama forgot me. I cry because it’s unfair. I cry over having to watch her waste away before my eyes. I cry over the confusion and forgetfulness and insanity deteriorating her brain. I cry because I’m mourning over my mama’s death before she’s even dead._

* * *

 

I cry now because the truth is my mama died before the date inscribed on that cold marble headstone. The sickness and insanity made my mama weak but death took her away from me yet it’s still my fault. Always my fault. And as I watch my dad drown himself in whiskey on the anniversary of her death, I sit and sob over how deaths a bitch.  

I cry because even though she forgot me… I can never forget her. Even if it causes me all the pain in the world because I deserve it because it’s always my fault.

* * *

 

There's 365 days in a year, 8760 hours, 525600 minutes and 31536000 seconds.

There's 365 days, 12 months and 52 weeks on a calender.

23 hours and 56 minutes are spent wallowing in guilt, grief and traumatic flashbacks.

Well... At least for me that is.

They say time makes the pain easier.

Time just gives us more excuses for the tears.

More fake smiles to plaster on our faces.

More foundation to  **try** and fill in the cracks of our guarded exterior.

More seconds, minutes, hours, days, years to  **try** to make it look like it doesn't hurt. 

More seconds, minutes, hours, days, years to perfect being okay.

Because the longer you act like your fine, the easier it is to get into character.

Too stay in character.

Right?

Your life is like a Jenga tower, as soon as one block is out of place it counterparts just how long you have until the walls you have built crumble into dust.

The ruins of your life laying at your feet in the mist of pain, past and memories

There's only time,

to camouflage your pain.


End file.
